


Past's Whitenoise

by Red_Cheshire



Series: Childhood's End [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath, Background Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Modern Era, Sadness From Happy Memories, abandoned buildings, low-key trespassing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:03:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8827966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Cheshire/pseuds/Red_Cheshire
Summary: It's been six months and it hasn't gotten any easier. Cae's been sneaking out when it gets too much.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following prompts, though not all were used; Fence, Building, Traffic Light, Motorcycle, Tree, Book, Face, Room, Park, Bus  
> Please tell me if there are errors as the word program I'm using keeps eating my spaces.

Cae peered at the ruin before him. Nothing had changed from the last time he’d been there. The tall, ancient wooden fence crumbling and half-rotten from rain and neglect. The fence that should have kept him out was broken, with many loose panels and covered with moss, but even that didn’t compare to the gaping hole only a few meters from the gate. It was as if a great beast had smashed through, though it was probably that a car had crashed into it at some point. No one had even tried to pick up the pulpy wooden shrapnel and it was laughably easy for him to climb through the void.

The building itself was more interesting. Like its wounded guardian the old house was long abandoned and neglected. Ivy grew along its water-stained walls and up through shattered windows. It was gorgeous in its ruined state and Cae had spent more than a few hours sketching as much of it as drew his eye.

In all the weeks he’d been coming to the old house no one had come, no one had come to investigate his presence, and no drunks, teenagers or taggers had come staggering through. For all its old age and clear signs of disrepair the old building was free of graffiti. It was his little haven when everything became too much.

As Cae walked up the steps, reaching out to turn the rusting iron doorknob, his hand was already riffling through his messenger bag. Cae frowned slightly, staggering stiltedly through the door as it creaked open, as he felt around the bag, grasping blindly under his scarf as he pulled out his buried sketchpad.

He didn’t bother looking up as he made his way through the old house, his eyes fixed on the vibrantly decorated cover of the sketchpad. It had been blank and plain when he’d first gotten it, he’d pleased with the results when he’d painted it. At the time Cae had been new to painting, and he hadn’t expected his mixed-media work to turn out so well.

The floorboards creaked softly under his feet, giving way to peeling linoleum as he entered the kitchen. Cae paid little attention to the cracked, broken tiles around him as he flicked through the pages of his sketchbook. His hand stilled as the page turned to one of his favourite pictures as he took in the image.

It was a motorcycle, one belonging to his brother and painted in water-colours. It was alone of the page, with only its own shadow alongside it. The red of the paint was a deep, vibrant shade, almost like cherries, and the chrome was a gleaming silver. It was shiny and bright, almost like the real thing had been that day.

Cae stopped in front of the counter, his face twisted into a pained grimace and his breath ripped itself from him and became almost a cry, a sob, and he traced the curves of the painted motorcycle with almost reverent hesitation. The handles and seat were black leather, and just as well cared for as the rest of the bike. The tyres hadn’t come out properly when he’d been painting it, so he’d gone back to it after it dried with a charcoal pencil, to get the lines of the tread right.

Biting his lip Cae put down his sketchbook, placing it on the cracked tiles in front of him, and he slumped down over it. His elbows boxed his sketchbook and he dropped his face into his arms. Drawing a harsh, ragged breath, he rubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands, trying to push back the sting of tears.

Cae let out a shaking puff, and flipped to the next picture. The huge oak was spread across the page and looking at it didn’t dull the ache any more than he thought it would. The old tree had been a huge part of his childhood and the signs of it were laid bare on the page. Wooden ladder rungs nailed to the trunk and a tyre swing hanging from a thick branch. In summertime he and Lucas would play in and under its branches, having sword fights with sticks and trying to wrestle each other from the tyre.

They hadn’t done that for a few years and now they never would. Cae flipped the sketchbook shut in a single movement as he scrubbed the tears from his eyes with his sleeve before they could fall. A rough warble escaped Cae’s throat as he caught sight of his reflection in the dusty glass. In the oversized red hoodie, one he’d permanently borrowed, he looked too much like Lucas had at his age; years before the accident, before the hospital, before he didn’t wake up. He missed his brother.


End file.
